


Isolde

by victoriadorian



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate - Fandom, syndicate - Fandom
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, F/M, Original Character(s), Victorian, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriadorian/pseuds/victoriadorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isolde is a young woman of both dignity and nobility, destined for a life of imprisonment in all but name. That's what marriage does to you, it would seem. That is, if you're married to London's most prominent industrialist, Sir Robert Fairfax, like she is.</p><p>But beneath her airs and graces is potential, and it takes a certain, roguish assassin to introduce her a life worth living. All in exchange for saving his life, of course, which comes about after Jacob makes his biggest miscalculation yet.</p><p>In other words, they save each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misinterpretation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story published on AO3, and my first Assassin's Creed fanfiction and HOLY CRAP, I am nervous. I'm kind of hoping that if I upload a bit now, it'll give me the motivation to finish this story. No idea if this will work. Fingers crossed, eh?

* * *

Feeling almost indifferent about the situation, Isolde capered obediently after her husband down the stairs, listening to his stream of concerns. "And you'll manage without Riggs, won't you? I can't imagine why you would need the valet before I return, but all the same, would it not be in the household's best interests to keep him here?" Below them, their collection of staff had gathered in an informal assembly to see the master of the house off, each donning artificial smiles. Robert nodded curtly at them in recognition.

Wearing one of her own, Isolde was quick to reassure him of his worries. "Of course not, my sweet," she promised him. "I'll have both Murray by my side and Mrs Rainier here to oversee things, as well as the rest of the staff. It will be as if you and Mr Riggs never left, I promise." Ignoring her, while clearly agitated, Robert pulled out his pocket watch carelessly, cursing vehemently under his breath as the thing became tangled. "I've got it, I've got it," he snapped as a member of their household rushed forwards to help him.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Robert turned back to Isolde - whose patient smile remained unfazed, despite the unnecessary scene - and said, "that's what I thought. I was only making sure of things before I left." For the briefest of moments, he felt a flare of resentment pass through him as he recognised the reproach in her expression, despite her easy-going smile.

She patted his shoulder somewhat affectionately, and while the look that then passed between the two may have been lacking in love, or even desire, outright, it held the same level of sentiment as to be expected for a couple who had lived together for four years as husband and wife. "There's no need for you to concern yourself so unnecessarily, Robert," she reminded him. "We all know what we're doing, valet or no. Besides," she added carefully, as a side note, "this isn't your first business trip."

"No, you're right. And, dare I say it, it shan't be my last - not if that old man continues to haggle me further," he retorted somewhat darkly, shrugging on his fine coat with Riggs' help.

Isolde turned to look at the staff - all of whom looked curious by their master's heated exchange - before clearing her throat emphatically, making it clear to Robert of his error. As if to reinforce this further, she added, rather pointedly, "I'm sure that we can continue this conversation another time, perhaps."

"Yes, yes, of course," he assured her quickly, uncomfortable at having been so publicly reprimanded - in front of his staff, of all people. "Now really," he told her determinedly, swatting Riggs (who was fast approaching him with a brush in one hand and a pocket watch in the other) away. "I must dash. I don't want to be late for my train."

"Of course, my sweet," Isolde promptly responded, smiling amicably. "We'll have dinner made and served in time for your arrival on Thursday."

"That would be lovely."

"Oh, and do send my love to the Henrys for me, please. I was so happy to hear of the safe delivery of their son. And what a charming name they picked out for him: Thomas. You will tell them that, won't you? Perhaps I could even visit them up in Edinburgh sometime soon. It would be nice to see them again."

At that, Robert raised his eyebrows. "Well," he began, his tone unobliging. "That may be difficult to organise. I won't promise anything other than to give it some thought."

Responding to his ungracious tone, Isolde hastily added, "or perhaps I could write to them instead."

"Yes, yes, I think that would be for the best, don't you?" Recognising the disappointment in her expression, Robert found himself getting distracted by the buttons on his coat. There was a moment of silence before Murray, the household's butler, cleared his throat. In unison, both husband and wife looked up at the clock positioned on the closest mantelpiece. Turning to Murray, who had been standing patiently at his side the entire time, he asked, "and has everything been prepared?"

"Your carriage awaits, milord," Murray confirmed obediently.

"Then we should get going." To the members of staff - who had, after all this time, remained standing patiently behind them, witnessing their entire exchange - Robert said, rather dismissively, "thank you for seeing us off this morning," leaving it at just that. In unison, they nodded their heads out of respect, keeping their eyes fixed on their shoes. To his wife, he said, "I will see you on Thursday."

"Thursday it is, then." There was a brief moment where neither of them spoke, nor moved, until Robert leant in awkwardly. Planting a hurried kiss on her cheek, he cleared his throat harshly before retreating from the room and to where the carriage was waiting for him outside. At his wake were his personal staff, the last of whom gave the room a final, apologetic look before closing the door softly.

With the room's attention now focused solely on her, Isolde gestured for them all to be dismissed with the wave of her hand. From then on, only the sound of the grand clock ticking obediently and the scuffle of feet as the household swiftly retreated was apparent, and Isolde, in a dutiful manner, brushed down the folds of her skirt out of objection, if not for having nothing better to do in that precise moment.

* * *

"You didn't have to let them all go, milady." Distracted from her novel, Isolde looked up to find Murray observing her - equipped with his standard reproachful expression. "I quite understand Mrs Rainier's situation. To lose one's brother is distressing, and I readily admit that it was I who recommended her coming to you just last night. But the others - well, I don't know how to describe it to you, milady, other than to point out their obvious lack of work ethic."

Amused, most of all by his all-knowing expression, Isolde had settled her book down next to her and attempted to explain to him - a man as diligent as he - that they had, in fact, done nothing wrong. "It is," she had carefully explained to him, suppressing all attempts to smile, "my responsibility, and thus my fault alone, Murray. Let them take their time off. Goodness knows I don't need a full household to watch over just me."

Murray had harrumphed loudly at that, clearly unimpressed. "I see, milady. Shall I go and reorganise what's left of the household then?" he asked ungraciously.

"Yes please," Isolde confirmed, smiling.

"And shall we prepare lunch for you in the dining room?"

Wrinkling her nose distastefully, Isolde shook her head. "No, I think I shall have it sent to me out here." She gestured to the bench that she was sat upon, and offered - somewhat dryly, "I might as well enjoy what little warmth London has to offer," as explanation.

"Outside?" Murray looked horrified. "Are you quite sure, milady? I could send someone to fetch a companion for you indoors. Edna, perhaps?"

"Certainly not!" Isolde shuddered. "There's only so much I can take of her incessant small talk, Murray. Please. Allow me to avoid such contact, if at all possible, upon Robert's return."

"Then I shall have it arranged for you," he told her through gritted teeth.

Cheered at having triumphed over Murray's stubbornness, Isolde then asked, "and could you send someone to fetch a shawl for me, please? Spring can't come fast enough, it's so chilly."

* * *

Isolde found her level of concentration dropping at dramatic rates, and whether it was from the absence of practise or the same weariness that she could feel slowly creep up on her now, she didn't know. Upon reaching the end of the page of her novel without taking anything in, Isolde decided to give up. She took a moment to scan a particular section - ' _I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other._ ' - before closing the book and setting it down beside her on the bench. Looking about, Isolde found herself shivering. No longer touching on chilly, the temperature had dropped dramatically, and to make it worse, the wind was picking up. Snuggling back under her shawl as best she could, Isolde looked warily about the small garden. It wasn't just the weather that was off. Something else had caught her attention.

* * *

_"Now, now, gentlemen," he had told them, wearing his most dazzling of smiles. "I'm sure that we can come to some kind of agreement. Preferably one that doesn't involve me having to deal with the lot of you." He was stood, pressed back against a wall, with his hands held over his head defensively. Before him, a mean looking group of Blighters were amassing. "You see," he had explained playfully, "I've had a rather tiring day, and I can tell you now: it won't end well for you lot."_

Well, he had made good on his word, and no one could tell him otherwise - even if he was fleeing the scene, badly wounded, and in moments from getting shot down, most likely. At least he could die knowing he'd knocked a couple of them out in the struggle, should it come to that, even now remaining his usual, competitive self, considering; not to mention that he was well in the process of eliminating the other two. That was, until one of them brought out his knife unbeknownst to Jacob, making a nasty piece of work of his torso. Recognising no other alternative but to run, he had done exactly that, fleeing quickly.

Scanning the rooftops before him, Jacob was well aware of the limitations placed upon him by his wounds. While the adrenaline from the chase was helpful in distracting him from the pain of the cut, it wasn't enough to stem the blood that was slowly, but surely, surging through the fingers that clasped desperately at his side. He'd been in worst scraps than this, and if it wasn't his father dragging him away from danger then it was Evie, each going off on a lecture before checking him over, making sure that he was still alive. But this was far worse than a bruised rib or bloodied nose, and how was Evie to know that he had wondered off unknowingly to Westminster? How could she get to him now?

"Oi! Get to." He heard his pursuers yell from behind him, and to his dismay, the witch-hunt had already quadrupled excessively. Blighters roaming the streets were joining in eagerly, aiming their guns at him, their fleeing target. Of course Jacob had to pick a fight in London's most heavily protected borough.

His right arm, which dangled lifelessly at his side, had fared no better in the struggle, and Jacob was struggling to keep his distance owing to the shooting pains that ran along his shoulders. To have made it this far was impressive enough, but it seemed as though his luck was petering out quick, and it was now a case of making a mad dash through the streets, turning whenever he could, in the hopes of reaching Whitechapel, and Evie, and - with any luck, if he had any left - salvation.

Turning again on a sharp corner, Jacob saw a great, brick wall stood high before him; it easily enclosed the area beyond it from the reach of those patrolling these respectable streets. If he could just get over it then he'd already be at a great advantage to these pillocks, none of whom had given up on chasing him yet. Problem was, it would be difficult - impossible, even - with two working hands, no internal damage, and the appropriate amount of adrenaline, all of which he lacked. Behind him, a clearly impatient bloke had fired his gun, his bullet ricocheting against the wall beside Jacob, causing him to almost trip up and fall.

It was now or never.

Unsure of what strength he called on to do so, Jacob had, somehow, managed to push himself up and over the wall - not that he remembered this, exactly. All he could recall was the sickening sensation of falling, the brief impact he made with the grass (winding him severely, to make matters worse), and the sound of a woman's sudden intake of breath.

Between falling in and out of consciousness, Jacob called on what remained of his strength to drag himself forwards, only stopping when the pain grew too much. From above, he heard someone - a woman, to be specific - commanding him to stop, and that he would only make things worse.

_Yeah right, love,_ he thought to himself humourlessly, aware of what was pursuing him.  _Keep talking._

In reality, he could only manage to make some kind of strange, guttural sound - a hybrid between groaning and wheezing, perhaps - and that was about it for him. Raising his head, Jacob remembered watching his bloodied hand stretch out before him, amazed at it, but not quite sure as to why exactly, before passing out.

In that moment, alone in the dark, the pain had left him completely.


	2. Road to Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a suspiciously, convenient turn of events...

* * *

"Murray!" Isolde had screamed.

Below her, the young man had slumped against the ground, his head lolling back in an uncomfortable position. His left hand, still clutched obediently at his side, seemed to be obscuring her view of a terrible wound, and Isolde found herself crouching down instinctively by his side. Rolling up her sleeves, she hastily tucked back the loose strands of hair behind her ear before responding to the situation. Lifting up several layers of her petticoats, she quickly ripped a piece of cloth from her chemise and pressed it clumsily against the wound.

" _Milady?_ " Looking up, Isolde resisted the urge to throw her hands in the air in frustration at the butler's horrified expression. "What happened?" He demanded, surveying the man distastefully from afar, refusing to come any closer than from the back door. It was then that Isolde remembered the man's incapability to handle blood.

Ignoring this, she had ordered - if not screeched outright: "I need your help,  _please_. We have to get him inside. I can't help him out here."

Looking between her and the house behind him, he had hesitated purposefully before approaching where she knelt, busy examining the young man's injuries from above him. "I should inform the others first," he told her, weakly, already backing away from the bloodied scene. "They were at the door just now, milady, looking for an injured man. A friend of theirs, I believe."

"Who?" she demanded forcefully.

"I cannot say, milady."

"Do I have blood on me?"

Taken aback, Murray simply gaped at her.

"Mr Murray, need I remind you that this man's life is in danger. Time has never been more of the essence than it has right in this minute. Do I make myself clear?"

"Milady, I don't think this is-" he protested feebly.

"Do I have any blood on me?"

She showed no signs of resisting. Defeated, he shook his head obediently. "No, milady. Not that I can see."

Feeling more determined than she had in a long time, Isolde nodded, to herself mostly. "I shall speak to these people for myself," she told him, her tone leaving no room for protests of any kind on his behalf. "Run along to where we keep our medical supplies. I need clean cloth, hot water, a needle, thread, and the carbolic solution from Lister's latest demonstration. There should be a spray, as well as instructions alongside it. Get a maid to help you with these tasks if necessary. Heat the water and coat the closest table with the carbolic solution in the spray, leaving only enough for me to wash my hands.  _Do you understand?_ "

She gave him no opportunity to disobey, instead turning to observe the young man laid out before her. Groaning, he began to writhe about now that he was regaining consciousness. Sensing this, she took his hand - ensuring that the stretch of material from her chemise was still pressed against his wound - and pressed it against him firmly. "Press it like this," she ordered, pronouncing each word emphatically. "We need to prevent blood loss. Press down on it firmly." His eyes began to roll again; he was drifting off again. Desperately, she repeated her orders again, trying harder to make herself heard.

By that point, Murray had already shuffled off quickly, and Isolde - giving her patient one last, desperate look - hastily followed suit, making sure to smooth down her skirts and regain some kind of order with her breathing before reaching the front door. Turning behind her, she caught sight of a young maid watching her curiously. Agitated, she had gestured for the girl to run off downstairs curtly, before returning her attention to the door.

Opening it, Isolde - not for the first time - donned her most dazzling of smiles. "Gentlemen," she greeted the men warmly, not having to remind herself of why their red uniforms looked so familiar. "I'm afraid that my husband is away on business, and will remain so for quite some time. Can I instead assist you in your troubles?"

None of them had doffed their caps as was expected of their station and by Isolde. One of the men - a scarily well-built fellow - took it upon himself to answer her. "I apologise for the intrusion, ma'am, but it is not your husband that we inquire after." He looked indifferent, least of all apologetic.

"Oh no?" Isolde feigned gentle curiosity.

"No indeed. We look for a man, and we believe he may 'ave passed through your gardens. He's badly wounded. And, as you can image, we're worried for him, of course."

"Of course," she hastily agreed. Looking between the small group of men, Isolde found it unsurprising that none of them looked too terribly distressed by the news. Behind them, another group of Blighters was assembled, each of its members muttering vehemently to the others whilst shooting suspicious looks at her. "How terrible," she declared loudly. "We must find him quickly."

Observing her carefully, the Blighter had shrugged. "Per'aps we could look for him in your garden. His wounds are too much and too great for him to have gotten very far. He'll be there now, we're sure of it."

Shaking her head, feigning regret, Isolde had told them: "No, I'm afraid that can't be. For you see, I was only in the gardens quite recently, reading to myself in quiet satisfaction. If he had – somehow - managed to enter then I would have noticed immediately, I assure you."

Unimpressed with her answer, another Blighter - discontent with the polite exchange - had pushed forwards. "There's blood on that wall,  _m'lady_ ," she told Isolde, the sarcasm dripping from her voice. "He came through all right. Now let us check."

"I apologise on her be'alf." In truth, he showed no concern, while lighting a cigarette, as one of the others saw fit to drag her away. "If that's what you say then that's what happened, of course." Isolde nodded, but found herself quickly losing confidence; he showed no signs of leaving, and the young man's chances were rapidly slipping away with every moment that they wasted. "But then-" Isolde's heart sank, "-a routine check would do you no 'arm, surely, ma'am." He breathed out pointedly, deliberately aiming the smoke at her.

Insulted by this action, and all too aware of the threat he posed, Isolde slowly reached her hand on the door's handle, taking care not to alert him. "I'm afraid," she began, her tone cold and her expression no warmer, "that you have neither the warrant nor the authority to validate such a search in my household. Until you do, I will not permit you entry in my husband's house, not without his permission."

"Now, now, lady-" He began, his expression menacing.

She quickly stopped him. "Of course, you are more than welcome to speak to my husband,  _Sir_  Richard Fairfax. As his wife, there are limitations to what I can do for you, but any complaints or inquiries you may have can be taken up with him. Understood?"

They had both hastily agreed then on that there was little reason for the Blighters to stay. It took little persuasion to ask them to leave once she had made it blindingly obvious that they weren't coming in; as far as they were concerned, suspicious or not, their target was still within reach, just somewhere else, or so she hoped.

Wilfully, she had slammed the door shut on them. After determining that they were, in fact, well and truly gone, Isolde had rushed over to the back of the house, where she found Murray (assisted by another footman) placing the young man on the table. The smell of the carbolic acid was overly pungent, and Isolde wrinkled her nose in acknowledgement of its presence.

Murray went one step further, voicing his complaint.

"I have done as was instructed," he told her, sniffing pointedly. "And it seems I have been made to drown the place in this solution. Am I to understand that this was the desired result?"

"It was."

"And is it really necessary?"

"It is."

Reaching for the soap set on the table between the patient and the spray, Isolde - with great haste - made her way to the sink, and began furiously scrubbing at her hands.

Speaking over her shoulder, she asked, "where is the hot water?"

"Here, milady," the footman informed her, gesturing to the bowl on the table.

"And the needle?"

"With thread, soaking in the solution."

She made her way back to the table, and began to cut at the man's bloodied shirt with a nearby knife. Horrified, Murray approached her, unable to speak at first for distress.

Too distracted by her job to bother looking at him, Isolde had announced, "I'm going to have to ask you to step back, Murray. We cannot risk infection."

"I shall go fetch a doctor, as is appropriate, milady," Murray informed her obstinately.

"Why?" she demanded, still distracted. "Jeb taught me everything he learnt, gave me all of his books, and he was the very best. I know what I'm doing. I trust him." Pulling back at his shirt, she made way to peer over his injuries. Gently, she raised her hand and began to press at his body. In her mind, she was making a list.

"Because Jeb went to University," Murray retorted hotly, "unlike you, and Jeb was not a fine lady, acting out against the expectations laid upon him by doing so, unlike you. Besides, this carbolic solution, it's unheard of, unspeakable. Doctor Jenkinson would say as such."

Turning on him, her hands bloodied, Isolde demanded, “Murray, I have come to trust you and respect you as a friend. I grew up under your care, as did Jeb, and surely you cannot dismiss him, or what he taught me, like this. And as for the phenol, well, Lister swears by it, and Jeb always thought highly of him. If I could obtain a copy of his publishings, detailing as such, then I shall go over it with you one day, I swear. I trust him, and I trust that I can get on with this.”

Below her, the man spoke out, his voice cracked by pain, “for god’s sake, just get on with it,” he swore hotly.

Placing her hand soothingly on his shoulder, Isolde explained, in as gentle a tone as she could muster under such circumstances, “you weren’t stabbed, luckily enough. Merely cut at. The wound’s not too deep, but I’ll have to stitch you up, I’m afraid. I’ll tend to that first, then see to your other complaints.” Turning to Murray, she said, “I need something strong for him to drink, and something that he can bite on.”

Waiting patiently until he had completed these tasks, Isolde leant over the young fellow. “Here, drink this,” she instructed, raising his head carefully to reach the bottle. He took several gulps, the drink dribbling from his mouth, before resting his head back. “Open wide,” she told him, and he obeyed her without complaint. She placed the wooden block in his mouth, and walked over to the needle.

“Leave,” she ordered Murray, not bothering to look up at him; she instead focused on threading the string through the needle’s eye. “I need to focus, and I can’t work with the risk of you fainting.”

He needed no further persuasion, preferring the option to bolt out of the room than to stay and argue things out with her - even at the expense of her breaking these so-called ‘expectations’. Albeit, he left only after muttering: “I still think we should call in Doctor Jenkinson,“ to himself, under his breathe. Isolde, as she was quickly growing accustomed to, just ignored him.

Holding the needle up to her eye, it took her several attempts to pierce it with the thread. Having finally done so, she settled it down next to her on the table, trying hard to readjust her breathing, which was rising from the panic that was struggling to overcome her in anticipation of what she was about to do. Focusing instead on cleaning the wound out, Isolde began to dab at it carefully, using a clean-looking cloth dipped in the pungent solution. He didn’t cry out when the acid came into contact with his flesh (as people often did, according to Jeb), but that was not to say he didn’t react. Tensing up visibly, he bit hard at the wooden block, and when she began - rather shakily - to stitch, his hand grasped desperately at the wooden table.

* * *

Isolde had never done anything like this before. Her experience only went as far as having read up textbooks intended for students, or listening to Jeb explain each of the demonstrations fervently to her, both sat up late at night, before, when he was still alive. He had been so eager to tell her all that he had learnt, from the moment he had noticed her inquisitiveness at his recollections from university. It made her smile - albeit sadly - to think of him.

She soon found herself breaking off the thread and placing the needle back in the cup of heated water. Double-checking to ensure that everything had been done to the best of her ability, Isolde turned her attention to the man’s other injuries. Carefully, she traced her hand along his torso, resting it at various points, and pressing it gently against others. At her touch, unbeknownst to her, the man had spat out the wooden block. He groaned loudly, causing her to jump. “That’s it, right?” he asked, weakly.

Smiling apologetically, Isolde shook her head. “By the looks of it, Mr -“ she trailed off, uncertain.

“Jacob Frye.”

“Mr Frye,” she confirmed. “As far as I can deduce, several of your ribs have been bruised, some of which may be broken. I’ll need to sit you up to be able to check before I can confirm that, I’m afraid. But do rest first.” Scanning over him, she pressed his left arm gently, checking his fingers and wrists. “Not broken, but -“ looking over his right arm, she confirmed: “Your right shoulder has been dislocated. I’ll need to reset it using a special technique called reduction.” Trailing her hand back across his chest, she made her final conclusion, “and your collar bone has snapped. Clean break, as far as I can tell. For that, we’ll have to let it heal naturally, aided by a triangular sling, which I can sort out for you, Mr Frye.”

“I’m tired,” was his only response.

“That’s to be expected,” she reassured him gently. “You’ve lost a lot of blood; far too much, in fact. You’re lucky to be alive, truly. The mob hunting down would surely have you dead.”

He pulled a face. “Of course they would. Bleeding bastards, the whole lot of them.” 

* * *

By the time Murray had resurfaced, Isolde was standing alone by the table, pouring herself a generous amount of gin. He looked at her disapprovingly, but made no comment about it. She offered him a drink with the nod of her head, but he declined politely.

"He's upstairs," she told him, gesturing to the empty but bloodied table in answer to Murray's silent question. "I had James and George carry him up to one of the guest rooms for me. With any luck, he's resting."

"And how is our patient?"

"He's alive, at any rate. But -" wrinkling her nose disgustedly, she admitted: "I really struggled with setting his shoulder back in place."

"Oh, milady?"

She shuddered. "I hope I never need do that again. The sound it made, I -" she broke off, knocking back her drink determinedly. Even in the dull light provided for by the oil lamps, Isolde looked visibly green.

He felt a wave of sympathy, and even a little admiration, overcome him. "You've done a lot of good today, milady," he told her gruffly. "Jeb would have been very proud of you."

She looked up from what was left of the contents in her glass, and at him, curiously. "Mr Murray, what are you implying?" she jested, albeit tiredly.

"Only that you have proved yourself a great tribute to his memory," Murray replied brusquely. "Your brother was a great man, and I had a lot of respect for him, as I do for you, milady."

Smiling sadly, Isolde settled her glass down on the table top behind her before walking over to Murray. Patting his arm affectionately, she had avowed, lovingly, "just as I respect you, even if you do complain too much."

Murray had wagged his finger at her in mocking reproach, but his eyes gleamed playfully. "Not nearly enough," he argued. "Besides, it isn’t as if it makes much difference. I'm telling you: one of these days, I'll nag you till I go blue in the face, and even then, I very much doubt you'll listen, milady."

They smiled at each other. "It's late, Murray," she reminded him, peering at the clock from across the room. "You should go rest."

"What about you?" he immediately countered. "Shall I send up Adams?"

She looked grateful. "Yes please."

"And what about the young man? Shall I fetch someone to watch over him?"

Isolde shook her head decidedly, having already made up her mind. "I'll stay with him. I know what to look out for."

He looked ready to protest, but she quickly stopped him. "I recognise that none of this is even close to being appropriate, Murray, but I may as well finish what I've started. Let me sit up with him, just for tonight." After reminding him of what they had just been talking about, Murray had sighed emphatically before giving up, holding his hands up defensively. "See? It's not so difficult now, is it?" Isolde had joked.

Despite his clear exasperation, Murray – as he had always done - bowed his head respectfully, murmuring, "goodnight, milady," to Isolde, who smiled in recognition.

"Goodnight, Murray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Isolde get through all of this sober? Is Jacob finally doing as he's told? Will Murray every calm down. Seriously, Murray, pull yourself together, man. Tune in next time, kiddywinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Is Jacob okay? Will Murray ever stop breathing into a paper bag? Tune in next time, kiddywinks.


End file.
